Johnny Damon's big day at the plate, including this three-run homer in the fifth inning, paved the way for a Yankees win. Photo by Jim McIsaac/Getty Images

Scott Raab: Good to see the Cleveland doom machine cranking up again. Even Joe Posnanski -- homeboy, compadre, and for my two cents the best baseball writer in America -- is sounding the alarm. And over on the Baseball Think Factory boards, home of the J. Henry Waugh Drum & Bugle Corps, men whose idea of a good time is running a regression analysis of BABIP patterns for right-handed batters at Coors Field are harrumphing about firing Eric Wedge if he doesn't start C.C. Sabathia instead of Paul Byrd tonight against the Motherfucking Yankees.

I was flying from Newark to Los Angeles earlier this year when I got in a long conversation with a couple of really nice guys. One was a San Diego lawyer and UCLA alum in his late 50s; the other was a 20-something assistant football coach at UCLA. Smart guys, great sports fans, and a bulkhead row -- quickest coast-to-coast flight I've ever had.

But something about the experience puzzled me, and it took me some time to think it through. These guys rooted for UCLA -- the lawyer had known John Wooden back in the day -- the Dodgers, and the Lakers, and they had enjoyed a whole lot of championship seasons. And they weren't smug, stupid, and ignorant about it -- they weren't Yankees fans -- and they weren't any less passionate about sports for being good guys who were used to watching their teams win.

But there was a gap between us. No, not a gap -- a chasm. An unbridgeable abyss. A vast, yawning, bottomless pit of such blackness -- hell, you get the picture. It was nothing I could explain at the time. I'm not sure I can name it now. It can, however, be described, and it has been, in the book of Job.

Fans everywhere have a perfect right to whine. I'm not looking for sympathy or empathy, and I'm not overlooking the fact that it's just a game, and that, unlike Job, I've been blessed in ways far more important than tragicomic fandom -- which, by the way, I wouldn't trade for what the two guys on the plane (much less the Yankees' fans) have known.

Still, a Cleveland fan's suffering is different in scope and kind. I was born in 1952, four years after the Tribe's last World Series win, and I have no memory at all of the 1954 Indians, who went 111-43 and were swept by the New York Giants in the World Series. But I need no memory of it, for I have seen Willie Mays catch the monstrous flyball Vic Wertz hit to deepest center field at the Polo Grounds with two on in the 8th innning of Game One with the score tied 2-2 in a game the Tribe would lose on a cheap 3-run pinch-hit home run to the short right field porch in the 10th -- a thousand times. Odds are, I will see it again before this season is over.

I have seen that fucking catch a thousand times. I have seen John fucking Elway march the Broncos down the field against the Browns a thousand more. I have seen Michael Jordan hit his jump shot over poor Craig Ehlo's upflung arm as time expired -- along with yet another the Cavs' season a thousand more. (If not for Cleveland's big-game losses -- and American Gladiators -- ESPN Classic would go tits-up.) The Catch. The Drive. The Fumble. Byner. Sipe. Mesa. Art Modell, may he and his be cursed unto the last generation. Every town has its litany of woe, but only Cleveland's has been so long unrelieved in every major sport.

Scott Raab: I don't believe in curses. I believe in good players playing good baseball.

I can look at the rosters and the numbers and conclude a thousand times that the Indians are a better team than the Yanks, but the better team is the one that wins the series. If you're Eric Wedge, you don't panic with your team up 2-1 and change your Game Four starter for fear of losing Game Five. Westbrook had a bad inning. Young Phil Hughes saved the day. The Yankees were the better team last night.

*****

Jay Levin: It's a funny how the little things add up. This didn't seem like a close game after the fifth, yet the margin of victory was only four, and the Indians gave away four runs on mental errors alone.

In the 3rd, with Matsui on second base and one out, Melky Cabrera accidentally tapped the ball two feet in front of the plate. Catcher Victor Martinez grabbed the ball, saw Mastui advancing to third base and threw there, but he was too late. Had he gone for the sure out at first base, Matsui likely doesn't score. That's one.

In the 6th, Nixon let a one-out, bases-loaded single roll under his glove and all the way to the wall, a little-league mistake that scored three runs. The ball had gotten to Nixon in less than two seconds, and with only one out, had Nixon not had to chase, it's unlikely Posada could have scored from second base, let alone Matsui from first. That's two and three.

Nixon's presence in the lineup had been justified by his track record against Clemens, who was long gone. His range in the field is a significant problem, but Westbrook is an extreme groundball pitcher, mitigating the problem. Since starters were long gone by the 6th, it's hard to see why Nixon was still in the game to make this blunder.

In the 8th, however, Nixon came through with an RBI double against Joba, even with no bugs around. Peralta scored from second, but Lofton only went from first to third. With two outs and the noodly-armed Damon fielding the ball in left, Lofton should have scored easily from first.

In fact, with the incredibly slow Nixon reaching second standing up, it's inconceivable that Lofton couldn't have scored -- unless either Lofton made a mental error by not running on contact with two outs, or his third-base coach made a severe misjudgment. Either way, that's four.

The Japanese arm of the Boston Red Sox pitching staff -- Daisuke Matsuzaka (left) and Hideki Okajima (right) -- participate in an old-fashioned American ritual: pouring champagne on each other after advancing to the next round of the playoffs. Photo by Kyodo News.

Scott Raab: Speaking of good players playing good baseball, the Angels three-game OPS was .503; their ERA was 6.66. If the Bosox have holes -- beyond their bitchy fanbase -- they're mighty hard to spot. (Ed. Note: For the record, Sox fans are not "bitchy" -- we're "neurotic.")

*****

Jay Levin: I'd like to tell you something about how the Red Sox sealed this series victory, but I decided to go to the bathroom when the Angels pulled Scot Shields in the top of the 8th. By the time I got back, the Red Sox had scored seven runs. I was not gone that long.

(Of course I tried this trick later in the evening, when the Indians were batting, but no dice.)

Schilling was inspiring on the mound, and not just because he wasn't speaking. Still blessed with excellent control, Schilling seemed like a different pitcher, less overpowering, more ducking and weaving, kind of a less-old, less-fat and less-obnoxious David Wells. Slightly less in all three respects.

I don't know how many times I've heard an older pitcher talk about how he's a better pitcher now than he used to be, despite losing quite a few mph off the heater. The one that sticks out is Doc Gooden, circa 1998. He was talking about how much of a smarter pitcher he had become, and it was hard not to think, yeah, but wouldn't every fan and every manager prefer to have that younger, dumber pitcher on their team? Even with the coke habit?

Gooden never had a notably good season after having shoulder surgery at age 29, but at least on a first look, Schilling seems to have gotten this less-dominating-but-smarter thing going pretty good. Well, at least it looked good against Vlad and the Slapping Pansies. We'll see how good it looks against a real lineup like the Indians next week.